


Whatever Souls Are Made Of

by EmboldenedBirdbrain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coffee, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff, I just want them to be okay, Idiots in Love, Mentioned Martin Blackwood, Pasta, Wine, coffee date ends in disaster, except not really, i love these idiots, there is almost no conflict, tim before the kayaking trip, tim learns to cook, timsasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmboldenedBirdbrain/pseuds/EmboldenedBirdbrain
Summary: Tim accidentally invites Sasha over for dinner, and all it takes is a little wine to get them to tell each other the truth.
Relationships: Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Whatever Souls Are Made Of

When they walk into the coffee shop together on their lunch break, both Tim and Sasha know it’s a bad idea. Tim has always made it his policy never to follow up romantically with a one-night stand. Sasha has made it her policy not to follow up romantically with Tim, specifically. 

Of course, they tell themselves, this time is different. _We’re friends now,_ Tim thinks. Sasha, could she have heard him, would have been inclined to agree.

Tim notices, despite himself, that she’s got a new hat. _She looks amazing,_ he thinks, and scolds himself for it. It’s over, or never started, and that is and always has been that.

The actual coffee date, though neither of them want to call it that, goes rather nicely. Sasha orders a cappuccino. Tim teases her for it, and proceeds to order an iced caramel macchiato, which both of them know is only about three percent actual coffee. It’s going rather normally. They’re laughing, talking like two people who really could pass for just friends. Sasha gets a little too comfortable, and so does Tim.

“I’ve been learning to cook. Like, proper cooking, not spaghetti,” he says.

“That’s good,” Sasha replies, “because you can’t make spaghetti to save your life. How’s Mrs. Andrews, by the way?” Tim had tried making spaghetti once, and the lady across the way had called 999 because she’d thought his flat was on fire.

“You wound me,” laughs Tim. “And here I was, trying to invite you over for dinner.”

He had meant it as a joke, but now that it’s out, he realizes how serious he is. Sasha can see it, too, but she waits. She doesn’t want this to go further, she reminds herself.

* * *

A few days later, Sasha is back at Tim’s flat. It’s been a while since she’s been here. When he lets her in, he feels he can’t keep the cheeky smile off his face. He’s glad to see her, but there’s a shell of formality around both of them that's making it hard for him to focus on that. 

Sasha has forgotten how Tim’s flat smells before she enters it. His perfume is what hits her first- he’s never liked cologne; he always said it smelled like bad whiskey and disappointment. Whatever he’s wearing now smells something like apples and spruce and rain. The rest of the place smells like whatever he’s cooking, but with that little hint of a person that permeates their living space no matter what they do. It feels very nearly like time travel. Nothing’s changed, not even the way his eyes gleam when he looks at her. She starts to think about it, and she scolds herself for it. It’s over, or never started, and that is and always has been that.

He’s made pasta, it turns out, maybe to riff on the spaghetti joke. He’s even got a bottle of wine to go with it- Chardonnay. She’s never really thought of him as a wine person, but she also hadn’t thought he was the type to listen to jazz unironically until a few weeks ago. Of course, the Hawaiian shirt and trainers wholly undercut any hint of poshness Tim might give off. 

They talk for a minute about what’s in the pasta, and Sasha is honestly impressed at the number of ingredients Tim simply rattles off. She has to remind herself not to find it too endearing. 

After about an hour and a couple of glasses of wine each, though, neither Tim nor Sasha have any such reservations. They’re both warm and laughing, and talking about things they really shouldn’t. 

“Okay,” Tim says, finally. “I have got to be honest with you, Sasha.”

“Honest? Oh no,” Sasha teases. “You’re being awfully serious, Tim; are you ill?” It’s a cheap joke, written by cheap wine. Tim doesn’t care. His attention has gone to how, if he looks in just the right places, certain strands of her outrageously curly hair look like gold.

“You know, that night,” he says, “I know you said it wouldn’t work out, and you were right back then. But, you know, we’re different now, and I love being your friend and all that, but…” he stops. His inhibitions are quieter now, but not gone. Should he keep talking? Sasha breathes in, filling her lungs with the new tension in the air. She says nothing. Tim continues: “It doesn’t feel right… _just_ being friends.”

Sasha is, unfortunately, inclined to agree. But she doesn’t say anything about it for a minute. She takes another sip of wine, not really to think rationally about what Tim has said, but to absorb it. She knows it’s true. Tim is a good friend, but she’s never really seen him that way. And if she’s going to tell Martin he’s lying to himself about liking Jon… she’d better just own up to it, hadn’t she?

She can’t help laughing, even though Tim looks at her like she’s stabbed a puppy in front of him.

“Look, forget it,” says Tim, suddenly picking up both their empty plates and whisking them away to the sink. “If you’re that put off by it, that’s fine; just don’t make fun of--”

Before he can finish his sentence, Sasha has grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him. She’s still laughing. 

“Okay, then.” he whispers when she pulls away. “So… I think I may have misunderstood you there.”

Sasha cups his face in one hand and runs the other through his hair. “We’re both idiots,” she murmurs, and he laughs with her. 

“Hey, now! That’s not fair; at least I was the one who said something.”

“Yes, and you had to wait to do it until you were drunk.”

God, she’s clever. Tim glances at the time. It’s late, and he really doesn’t want her to go. “Do you want to stick around for a while? We could turn the telly on, watch those garbage talent shows.”

She does, she says, and they do. At least, until they fall asleep on Tim’s charity-shop sofa, just as tangled up in each other as they’ve always been. 


End file.
